The Orphan's Tale

by Anne Shaughnessy

  "No," said the man. "We should thank you!"

  ** ** **

  "He left no name?" Malet asked later. He was sitting at the Prefect's desk, looking down at the note with a blazing smile and then reviewing his notations beside it. Pauline Guillart was sitting on his lap and taking in the wonders of his repeating watch.

  "Pauline, be careful with that!" gasped Guillart as she swung it back and forth on its chain. He met Malet's amused gaze and said, "It's a very fine watch!"

  "Relax, my dear fellow!" said Malet. "It's a piece of machinery! Did he leave a name?"

  "Pauline, my love, give the watch back to your Uncle Malet," said Guillart sternly. He waited until she had done so and the watch was safely bestowed in 'Uncle Malet's' pocket and then said, "No, sir, he didn't leave a name. I didn't want to press him. He seemed a little nervous. Justine told me she found him sitting outside and crying."

  Pauline wanted to cuddle; Malet settled her more comfortably against him and scanned the note. "He was probably crying from shame," he said. "With spelling and handwriting like this, I'd cry as well." He held the paper at arm's length, his smile dimming a little. "Good God! This is terrible! I don't understand children at all sometimes!"

  "But you like me," Pauline said wistfully.

  "I love you, Noisette," said Malet, who got along very well with children. "I just don't understand children once in a while."

  "That's hardly surprising, considering that you're a bachelor," said Guillart. "I gave up trying to figure children out years ago. If she's hurting you, my dear Malet, I will put her on my lap."

  "No, not at all," said Malet. "I have encountered songbirds that are heavier than her."

  "She also squirms, and you're wounded." Guillart pointed out.

  Malet only smiled and shook his head.

  "What's a bachelor?" asked Pauline, who was busy exploring Malet's waistcoat pockets and playing with his watch chain.

  "Someone like your godfather," Guillart answered. He smiled to himself and added, "I think it was probably pure temper, sir. Children that age tend to throw tantrums if they don't get their way or think their dignity's been compromised. I gather he had a bit of a spat with Dominique right before Justine found him."

  "Perignon?"

  "Yes. The child had quite a mastery of vulgar words, from what he told me."

  "Where was Archet during all this?"

  "He's out today. Something about his wife."

  "Oh? He's married?" Malet frowned. "I didn't know that. Good God! Who'd have him?"

  "His wife has the gratitude of all the women of France," said Guillart with a grin as Pauline chuckled.

  Malet's eyes widened and he smacked his forehead with his palm. "I shouldn't have said that," he said.

  "Why not?" asked Guillart. "It's true enough!"

  "Sebastien says Archet's a piss‑ant," said Pauline with a smile that would melt marble.

  Malet threw Guillart a reproachful look. "Constable Archet is an officer of the Police," he said repressively. "He's not a 'piss‑ant', and you may tell your brother that with my compliments."

  "Oh," said Pauline, who had found Malet's snuff‑box. She opened it and took a piece of barley‑sugar candy, then tugged at the watch chain again.

  "This boy," Malet said, "How old did you say he is?"

  "He looked between six and eight years," Guillart answered.

  Malet stiffened. The stone‑thrower? "Was he a street urchin?" he asked.

  "What's that?" asked Pauline around the candy.

  "Someone who doesn't have a mother and father to love him," Guillart answered. "Stop teasing your Uncle Malet now. Yes, Monsieur, he was a guttersnipe - "

  "Guttersnipe..." said Pauline with a wide‑eyed intentness that made Malet grin.

  "It's the same as a 'snicklefritz'," he told Pauline. He turned to Guillart. "He has quite a vocabulary," he said. "'Perscripshun': I wonder if he means proscriptions. And what on earth is a 'malor', do you suppose?" He scanned the note again and began to smile. "I think, my very dear Guillart, we're just about to nail Dracquet!"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that my wishes have come true. Just think: a little over a week ago I was wishing for a way to get a 'mole' into Dracquet's household - and now, it seems, I have one! There was a child holding that white horse for Dracquet, and this must be the child d'Arthez says he's seen from time to time. I am certain he's the one who saved my life two nights ago! See: he says, ps I am glad they din't kil you. There's too much here for it to be mere coincidence. It must be him! And he mentions a princess! It's falling into place, Guillart! It's falling into place! 'Tusday next'. Hm. That gives us almost a week."

  "What do your snitches say?" asked Guillart.

  Malet frowned. "He says precious little. I am beginning to wonder if I should pay Michaud another visit."

  "You'd best be careful," said Guillart. "You don't want to scare him off."

  Malet flung him a look such as Napoleon might have thrown at an officer of local militia who had proposed a flanking maneuver. "Is there anything else you think I should know?" he inquired pleasantly.

  Guillart 's gaze was limpid. "I can't think of anything else," he said.

  "Thank you," said Malet. He began to chuckle. "Oh very well," he said after a moment. "I will send someone a little less alarming than myself. You, perhaps?"

  "I'd be happy to go," said Guillart.

  "Good. Do so as soon as you can - "

  "Aren't we going to see the elephant?" asked Pauline. "You said you'd take me."

  "Oh Lord!" said Malet.

  "You don't have to," said Guillart. "There's always another day."

  Malet set Pauline on her feet and shook his head. "No," he said. "I promised. Besides, my bodyguard would like to visit the Jardin des Plantes, I am certain. I have no idea why His Excellency assigned that gentle, helpless fellow to guard me: he's the one who needs a bodyguard! Gaping at the elephant will suit him better. Come along, Noisette." He added, "Guillart, do you suppose I will have to buy him a dish of ices, too?"

  LIV

  INSPECTOR MALET COMMITS A THEFT

  Malet turned and waved to his young bodyguard, sitting in the carriage from the Prefecture. "Good night," he said. "And thank you. I will see you in the morning."

  He watched the carriage clatter off over the pavement and then turned toward the Rose d'Or filled with the pleasurable contemplation of the certainty of nailing Constant Dracquet and the equally enjoyable speculation on everything he would find when he had succeeded.

  The note had tied Dracquet in with Benoit's and le Noir's attempt on Malet's life, but it also hinted at danger to a princess who would be coming to France. Princess Victoria, of course: and the word 'succession' had been used, as well.

  Guns, troops, proscriptions - war! Dracquet had profited from war before, and he would try to do so again. Malet could arrest him for the attempted assassination - but why not keep that as a trump card in case he couldn't be caught on anything more dire?

  Every pot bears the imprint of its potters' hands, however faint. Malet had learned dedication and duty at Joseph Young's knee; he owed his skill as a stalker to Cheat‑Death. He was at once Cheat‑Death's greatest triumph and most profound defeat.

  Do as much damage as you can, boy, he had said to Malet, a lad of fifteen leaving Toulon prison. Don't disable 'em with a pinprick when you can kill 'em with a stab to the heart! And remember: always let 'em know who it was destroyed 'em! When enough people have died screeching your name, the rest won't want to tangle with you.

  Now Malet bent to sniff one of Yvette's heavy‑petaled, fragrant roses with a satisfied smile. Success was within his grasp. Now was the time to hold back, now the time to be patient. It would not do to spoil the hunt when he was so close to the kill. A simple success was not sufficient; successes could be reversed. He wanted a tour de force, and he was willing to wait for it.

  In addition to that, when he had returned from the menagerie with his b
odyguard and Pauline, Sergeant Guillart had shown him a list of names of people who answered to Malet's description of Vaux. He had chosen the six closest matches, and gave directions concerning the information that he required on them.

  He was certain that he would be able to put his hands on Vaux within six months. And then? Who knew? Getting Vaux' sentence reversed was not out of the question. It would right an old wrong and heal the last lingering ache in Malet's heart.

  This thought actually had him singing as he strolled into the stableyard of the Rose d'Or, and he hesitated only a moment before going into the stable to visit Saint‑Légère's new chestnut stallion and feed some barley‑sugar candies to Brutus, the big black gelding at the end of the aisle, who nickered to him whenever he passed.

  He chatted pleasantly with Claude, who was busy oiling tack, and then turned to go into the inn by the kitchen entrance. Once inside, he was confronted by a table filled with pink‑iced sugar cakes, obviously baked for a special occasion.

  Sugar was expensive, and the prisons of France, never lavishly budgeted even in the best of times, seldom had occasion to use any of it. As a result Malet, like many who grew up dependent on the largesse of the government, had a sweet tooth. The ranks of sugar cakes seemed numberless, and he thought that one would hardly be missed.

  He came closer to the table, cast a critical eye over the sweets, and carefully selected the largest, pinkest cake, which he proceeded to eat with swiftness and economy.

  "M. l'Inspecteur!" said a voice behind him. "You aren't very particular what you eat, are you?"

  Malet jumped. He turned and saw Yvette surveying him with a dishcloth in one hand and a martial glint in her eye.

  Having been caught red‑handed, he decided that it would be best to brazen out the situation. He chewed and said, carefully, "I certainly am particular - this one looked to be the best of the lot!"

  "Shame on you! Those were for Louise Roissy's wedding! I just had enough to go around! Now look at it! I will have to bake another batch!"

  "Can I have one of them, too?" Malet asked blandly.

  Yvette, who accorded him the same exasperatedly affectionate treatment she gave her many brothers, stared into his eyes for the space of time it took to draw a deep breath, then clouted him with her dishrag. "Of all the insufferable - you're worse than any of my brothers - !"

  "But you'll have some extra," Malet said, dodging another blow of the dishrag. "I will be saving you from having people fighting over the leftovers!" The dishrag caught him on the shoulder. "Now do stop it, Yvette, please! - you'll give me a concussion - and I wounded!"

  She swatted him with the dishcloth once more, her face alight with laughter that pinkened her cheeks and made her blue eyes almost sapphire in the reflected warmth. "Get out of here, then, you rascal!" she exclaimed. "What a brat you must have been!"

  The door thumped shut. Malet looked in the direction of the sound and suddenly smiled.

  Inspector Plougastel stood in the doorway beside Elise with a piece of paper in his hand. He was staring from Malet to Yvette with the expression of one who does not know whether to laugh or hurry to the rescue. Elise was chuckling.

  Malet's smile deepened. "Georges!" he said, "Come in! I see you have already met Mme. de Clichy. Come meet the poor lady whom I have just robbed, all unwittingly! What can I do to make amends?"

  Yvette took a closer look at the man who was approaching them. He was pleasant‑looking and, fortunately, quite unalarming. She relaxed and smiled a little.

  "Yvette Franchotte," said Malet, "Permit me to present to you Senior Inspector Georges‑Corneille Plougastel of the 12th arrondissement. M. Plougastel is my second‑in‑command. Georges, Mlle. Franchotte is the second of the two landladies of this inn. I can vouch for the excellence of this establishment: you can see for yourself the charm of its two proprietresses."

  Plougastel looked sharply at Malet, but he caught nothing of the brightly intent look that usually attended his friend's introductions. If anything, the man looked demure. He relaxed a little and smiled at Mlle. Franchotte before bowing over her hand. "I am very sorry to hear that you have wronged ladies of this quality, my dear Paul, however unwittingly it may have been," he said. "Shall I plead in your behalf?"

  "I will throw myself on their mercy," said Malet.

  Elise, who had been watching them, looked up just in time to catch the bright, intent expression that he had missed.

  But Plougastel had just straightened and was smiling at Malet. "I bring you a message that I think you'll find very interesting."

  ** ** **

  "Confide in me, M. Chief Inspector Guardian Angel Paul Malet," said Elise later that evening. "What's the game?"

  They were sitting in the large salon, in companionable silence, she with her embroidery, he reading Le Journal des Debats in front of a dancing fire. It was a mark of their growing comfort together that they often felt no need to speak.

  Malet's rare smile flashed for a moment as he set down the paper. The message from Michaud had been most gratifying, bearing out, as it did, the information received from the child informant. It had also shed some light on the question of what a 'malor' was, and brought Malet's mind back to Rosalie's suspicions concerning the Duke of Rochester. He had made a list of items to pursue in the case of Constant Dracquet, and was now enjoying a very placid evening beside Elise.

  The smile flashed and vanished, leaving him as soberly sedate as ever. "'Game'?" he asked.

  "Don't play the innocent with me," said Elise. "I saw that smile as you were introducing them. Who is that man?"

  "I told you," said Malet, taking up the paper again. "He's my second‑in‑command." He eyed her annoyed expression and said, "There's no game, I promise. And as for Georges Plougastel, I consider him one of the finest men in Paris."

  "Indeed?"

  "Yes, indeed. Listen: he's forty years old and a widower, with three children. His wife was a lovely lady, and he made her happy while she was alive. I miss her still... She made me promise, as she was dying, to look after Georges. He's the soul of honor, a true gentleman - "

  "He certainly appears so - but I don't fancy you as a matchmaker."

  "I am not playing matchmaker!" Malet objected. "He came here - strictly in the line of business! - and happened to meet Yvette. I can hope, can't I? That's all I am doing."

  "You shouldn't play with peoples' hearts," said Elise. "You could hurt someone!"

  "Where's the harm in a casual introduction, for heaven's sake?" Malet asked. "How could anyone possibly be hurt by that? It could be a good thing for both of them. Georges is a fine man, and a very gentle one. His children - delightful youngsters, all three of them! - need a mother. Yvette's a motherly sort, and young enough still to bear children of her own to fuss and cluck over. She could be very happy with him. It could be a good thing for both of them."

  "Yvette was...hurt very badly once," said Elise.

  "Raped, probably," Malet said, shaking out the paper and folding it again.

  "What?" Elise demanded.

  "I beg your pardon. I speak too bluntly at times, but it's obvious to me. She's terrified of men who carry weapons. That's why I never wear my sword around her, and I never let her see my pistols. I am certain she was at least cruelly abused, and probably she was raped. I think I know when it happened, too."

  His expression was sad for a moment. It cleared and he looked up at Elise again. "Don't worry, Elise," he said. "I was born and raised in a prison, true: but I learned not to condemn victims simply because someone committed a crime against them. Yvette is a lady, no matter who raised a hand to her. I only wish I could have been there to stop it."

  "Then you understand my concern. How would you like it if M. Plougastel took it into his head to start presenting you to eligible ladies - surely he, having experienced a happy marriage, would think that it would be perfect for you, and attempt a match!"

  Malet's mouth tipped oddly. "I don't think he could," he said.

&nbs
p; "There are plenty of ladies to steal your heart," Elise said.

  "Maybe I don't have a heart to steal," Malet said.

  Elise looked intently at him and then smiled and reached over to take his hand. "Oh no, my dear friend," she said. "I don't believe that at all."

  He looked down at their hands with a reserved smile. "Then perhaps my heart is no longer mine to give," he said quietly. "And so all matchmaking is useless."

  LV

  THE PROVISIONAL PREFECT

  HAS DEALINGS WITH A FIEND

  Larouche grinned and waved at the cook and went out the door. He walked jauntily along, whistling through his teeth. It was a splendid day, he had just eaten a good lunch, courtesy of Dracquet's cook, his whistling was going very well, and he had a loose tooth, just to the right of his two front teeth, that had reached that very satisfying stage where it can be manipulated with the tip of the tongue, to the disgust of passers‑by. In addition to all these felicities, he had the added joy of knowing that he was about to put another nail in Dracquet's coffin by writing a third note to the police.

  He had felt a twinge of guilt at one point, and it had been enough to make him consider calling a halt to his vendetta. No more. Dracquet, seeing him today, had ordered him from the premises in very rude terms.

  'Misbegotten vagabond'!

  The cook had sneaked him back in through the servants' entrance and fed him some delicious potato and leek soup as well as the remains of the past night's dessert.

  The cook had given Larouche all the news, along with the saddening item that he had given his notice.

  "There's too much afoot, and I don't like it," he had said. "I just got an offer from one of the rich folk in the Faubourg St. Germain. He's eaten here, and he wants me to be under‑chef. I have agreed to take the situation."

  He had smiled at Larouche's troubled expression, rumpled his hair, and added, "It's not the end of the world, scamp. I will be at No. 12, Rue De Varenne. You'll just have to come and visit me, that's all."

  Larouche had left, saddened. His mood hadn't lasted for long. He had stowed away on a luxurious carriage heading southeast. Through some skillful changes, he had managed to arrive in the 2nd arrondissement in front of the classical temple that was the Bourse. North of it, part of the rabbit‑warren of arcaded walkways, was the Passage des Panoramas. Now Larouche was knocking at the door of the stationer on that street.